


dial tones

by officialvampyr



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Blood, Canon Typical Violence, Flirting, Idiots in Love, It's totally normal to call your rival after he kicks your ass right?, M/M, Mostly just banter, Persona 5 Royal - Freeform, Phone Calls, Pillow Talk, Pining, depictions of violence, persona 5 royal spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24292279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/officialvampyr/pseuds/officialvampyr
Summary: Persona 5 Royal Spoilers for Rank 8--In the wake of their galavant in Mementos, Akechi returns home to lick his wounds.His gaze flicked to his phone, resting precariously on the edge of his sink. He’d be lying if he said part of him didn’t want to call Akira, just to hear his voice. He reached for the phone, but hesitated. Why? Calling him wouldn’t do anything for him but prolong the ache in his stomach.And yet…Well, what was a little self-indulgence?
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 17
Kudos: 285





	dial tones

_And in the wake of this evening, I just can't shake this feeling_   
_That I'm farther from you now_   
_So my knees touch the floor, I feel something never felt before_   
_My beliefs got in my way_

\--

The figure reflected in the mirror was not the famed Detective Prince, with his fake smiles and his charm. If his fanbase were to see him, they would have balked; this was someone nearly unrecognizable, yet at the same time, someone he’d become quite familiar with over the past few months.

Goro Akechi had a bruise on his cheek, flaring from where he’d been punched. It was already colored a deep purple, tender to the touch and swollen. His lip was split, dried blood clinging to the broken skin and to his chin. He felt his lips curl into a smile, which only opened the wound and caused his cheek to ache, but it felt strangely satisfying nonetheless.

He supposed he had to be grateful, in some sense, that Akira had not chosen to mar him with more facial obstructions. Two blows to the face, just enough to crack the pretty boy façade of his, just barely suitable to make it home without someone calling the police on him, and just enough that he would have to either further avoid television guest slots or invest in some pricey cosmetic concealers. For now, though, he didn’t want to hide it.

Underneath his uniform, his body ached with the remainder of his wounds.

Akira had offered to heal him, because of course he did. Despite the fact that Goro had asked for him to give it all he got, he still wanted to heal him. He’d had his persona ready, _Diarama_ on his lips, but Akechi had denied him. He didn’t want to be healed by him. Akira had balked at him and insisted, but Goro had been resistant nonetheless. He didn’t tell him as much, but Goro wanted to feel this pain; to treasure it, remember it. Furthermore, it felt like a betrayal to himself to have Akira heal him; he had wanted it to hurt, after all, and he’d wanted to make a point. He had pronounced them formal enemies, and yet, that man’s kindness continued to prevail. Enemies, yet he wanted to heal him nonetheless, wanted to _care_ for him as if he were one of his own.

The leader of the Phantom Thieves sure was dense, wasn’t he? Goro’s lips twisted into a sharper smile as he thought about it, fresh blood pooling on his lip. He swiped his tongue over it, savoring the bitter taste of metal. This was how he always ended up—just a boy alone in his apartment, licking his wounds. Akechi prided himself on never relying on anyone else, on traversing palaces on his own, taking down numerous shadows against all odds. This was what he was used to; carrying small vials of ointments and serums to give him just enough momentum to keep going, gnawing on stale energy bars and fighting down nausea to keep something in his stomach. He didn’t need someone looking after him. He’d done fine on his own.

He slowly began to peel off his uniform. The ache of his wounds, the long subway ride, and the subsequent walk back home had left him drenched in sweat. Piece by piece, he let his clothing fall to the floor in an unorganized heap, hissing as the fabric dragged over burns, cuts, scrapes. When he stood bare-chested in front of his mirror, he appreciated the way Akira had undone him. He had told him not to hold back, and by god, he didn’t. He had an arsenal of personas at his disposal, using each element to try and find a weakness in him. He’d come up empty, but that didn’t mean Goro was immune to the plethora of magical attacks.

Most serious appeared to be a burn on his shoulder from Joker’s _Agidyne_ attack, the wound already blistering and hot. It hurt like hell to move his arm, and he was surprised he hadn’t burst the blister by trying to undress. The severity of the wound had been amplified by an unforgiving gust of wind, causing the flames to travel down his left arm. It, too, was red and sweltering, but it did not blister the way his shoulder did. He shuffled towards the shower, letting the water warm just enough before stepping in. He bathed quickly, cautiously, every shift of muscle hurting as he scrubbed sweat and the lingering taste of Mementos off his skin. He cautiously rinsed his wounds, exiting the shower to dress them.

A towel wrapped loosely around his hips, he shoved his dirty pile of clothes out of his way as he returned to the sink. He started at the burn, dipping his fingers into a jar of burn ointment and slowly spreading it over the burn, fingers moving in small circles. It was fucking agonizing, to say the least, but he accomplished his task. It wasn’t easy applying the gauze either, especially when he had to maneuver over his shoulder as well, but he managed.

Goro _always_ managed.

He tried to imagine the opposite: in another life, perhaps Akira came home with him, eager to ensure his wounds were healed as he’d promised. Maybe it was _his_ gentle fingers gliding over burnt skin, gently massaging ointment into place, taking the pain away. He could imagine the soft touch of gauze laid over him without the terrible twists and turns Akechi had to suffer through to dress them himself. He imagined Akira curiously inspecting him for more wounds, fingers skating across his torso and chest, before his thumb, feather-light, graced the bruise on his cheek. He could practically hear him tut _“So much for that pretty face,”_ while angling his chin towards the light.

It’s not unpleasant, he supposes reluctantly, sucking in a shuddering breath, but such thoughts of domesticity are a luxury he rarely allowed himself to indulge. Instead, he forced himself to focus on the fire inside him.

He’d said he hated him, which was not untrue, but it was not _entirely_ true, either. He could go on about the things he despised about Joker until he was blue in the face. He not only hated Kurusu’s ability to overcome any obstacles in his way, but he was also envious of it. He envied his relationships, hated how warm and welcoming his friends were. He could feel that pit in his stomach grow every time they extended a hand to him, but something in him, whenever Akira reached for him, wanted to reach back. Yes, he had said he’d hated him—but love and hate were quite close to each other, weren’t they? He could not help the way he _ached_ for him, impossibly drawn to him, a victim of Akira’s unyielding gravity.

His gaze flicked to his phone, resting precariously on the edge of his sink. He’d be lying if he said part of him didn’t want to call Akira, just to hear his voice. He reached for the phone, but hesitated. Why? Calling him wouldn’t do anything for him but prolong the ache in his stomach.

And yet…

Well, what was a little self-indulgence?

Akira picked up on the third ring. Akechi bit back a snarl of a smile. _Eager as always, hm?_

“Already regretting not accepting my offer to heal you?” comes the soft drawl over the phone, skipping the formalities and fluff of a hello in favor of smug banter. He couldn’t hide the smile this time, knife-sharp and painful. His face felt like it would split in two.

“No,” Goro found himself replying stubbornly, _petulantly._

The Phantom Thief hummed, unconvinced.

“…but did you _have_ to follow a fire attack with wind?” he asked with an edge.

There was a soft huff, almost a laugh. “You wanted me to give my all,” he reminded, all-too-happily. Goro heard the soft ruffle of fabric, followed by a sleepy little _brrp?_ that he assumed to be a disturbed Morgana. Was he just getting into bed? “My offer still stands,” he added, a moment later, followed by the continuous rustling of blankets.

It was Goro’s turn to laugh. “It’s late.”

“I could make the last train.”

He can’t imagine that going well. The last train meant he would have to spend the night, and he already sounded like he was comfortable in bed. The fact that he would abandon his own fatigue to come running to his rescue was… valiant, touching, nausea-inducing. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Oh, leader,” Goro sighs into the phone, “when will you stop prioritizing the needs of others? You know it’ll be your downfall.”

Akira paused. “Caring for others is not a weakness,” he said quietly.

Goro considered this but chose not to respond. His thumb jabbed at the speaker button before he placed his phone down on the counter again, honing in on one of his knife wounds that had started bleeding again in his attempts to wrap his burns. “You should just be mindful of who you choose to care for,” he advised, inverting a bottle of hydrogen peroxide onto a cotton swab and gently swiping over the cut. Akira was as merciless with a knife and his fists as he was with a persona. Goro would admit, however, that it was titillating to know that he could have fought purely _with_ his persona, but chose to resort to fisticuffs in the end. He could always admire a feat of strength. He dabbed at the wound with the cotton ball, hissing as the peroxide fizzled and reacted against his skin.

“Are you alright?” Akira asked, almost immediately, that playful tone of his dripping away into concern.

He was fascinated by the way the Phantom Thief could steel himself, make himself utterly unreadable, except for when it was about someone he cared about. “Oh yes, quite fine. Your knifework leaves nothing to be desired.”

He hummed again. “For someone who hates me, you sure like to compliment me.”

He stuck the bandage a bit too forcefully against his side and growled. “I give credit where credit is due, I suppose.” Silence falls between them as Goro patches up the last of his wounds, fumbling through his medicine cabinet before finding a bottle of pain relievers. He uncapped the bottle and downed two pills dry. “Aren’t you going to ask why I called?”

After a moment, he simply said, “No,” which, frankly, irritated Goro more than he would like to admit. _No?_ The person who just admitted that he hated you decided to call you after he not only pulled a gun on you, but violently tousled with you in the Metaverse, and you don’t want to know _why_? “Figured you just missed my voice.” There was a disgruntled little meow on the other end of the line, followed by another voice hissing _Can’t this wait ‘til tomorrow?_ Morgana was ignored, though. “You usually call after we spend time together. Frankly, I was waiting for you to call sooner.”

Which, of course his brain would focus on the _I was waiting for you to call_. Goro felt like he was getting heartburn. “Perhaps I should let you go.”

“No,” Akira said quickly, perhaps too quickly. He can hear rustling again, probably as Akira throws his blankets off. “We don’t have much time left. I want this to last.”

Akechi found himself at a loss. Before he could wonder why _Joker_ thought they didn’t have much time left, he found himself saying, “You’re right.” Then, mustering up his best princely voice, he added, “My apologies for dragging you out of bed at such an hour.”

To which Akira replied with, “Cut the bullshit, you don’t need to feed me the pretty prince.”

He felt his eyebrows raise nearly into his hairline, thoroughly shocked. Once it subsided, he smirked. “If you insist,” he said, losing that caramel luster to his voice. “What are you doing up so late then, leader?” Tucking his phone between his hear and his shoulder, he padded from the bathroom to his bedroom, rifling through drawers to find clean clothes. He slips into well-loved plaid pants, making the executive decision to forego a shirt, knowing it would just irritate his burns.

Akira yawned on the other end of the line. “A prince called,” he murmured, “so a knight answered.”

“Is that how you see yourself? A knight? Valiant and true?”

“And loyal to a fault.”

Goro smiled again, this time with less teeth. There was something attractive about Akira’s ability to admit to his own faults. He slowly lowered himself onto his bed, feeling the ache of sore muscles and bruises as he did so. “Did your cat kick you out of bed?” He can’t hear much, but the way Akira’s voice carried had changed in a way that indicated he had changed rooms.

“I thought about making some coffee.” And then, the distinct sound of a coffee cup settling on the counter.

And fuck, what Goro wouldn’t do for a cup of coffee right now.

Not just the coffee, he supposed. He found himself struck with the desire to perch on one of the Leblanc barstools, half-draped across the counter as Akira worked behind it. That fire from earlier was simmering into something else, he realized. _Longing._ “Save me a cup,” he found himself whispering.

Akira paused, then tentatively said, “You could come over, you know.” Which seemed a worse idea than Akira coming _here_. Two rivals, an empty coffee shop, and a bed in an attic. What could go wrong?

The idea of going to Leblanc was favorable compared to the alternative; something about Akechi keeping his private life private, something metaphorical about letting Akira _in_. But as much as he’d love to find out how that would go, especially after their fight in Mementos, he could not fathom the thought of getting up. “So eager to get your hands on me again, leader?”

There’s a laugh on the other end. “I didn’t see you objecting,” he purrs, voice silky sweet, “in fact, I believe you were encouraging it. _Harder, Joker_ , I think you said.”

He felt his face heat up, eyes widening in alarm. He was very, _very_ grateful they were miles away, only connected by a phone call.

But the way he would hear Akira _smirk_ into the goddamn line made it quite obvious he _knew_ , and Goro _hated that_. He had no right knowing him as well as he did—or knowing him at all, frankly. “I just want to make sure you’re alright.”

There’s that sentimentality again. Goro rolled his eyes. “Akira,” he hums, unable to stop that _Detective Prince Lilt_ from seeping into his tone, “we both know you were holding back. You never punched hard enough to do more than bruise, and each cut of your dagger was only superficial. The only real damage you did was with magic, and even then…” He could have done worse. It made him quake with anticipation, knowing what was to come. “I’m alright,” he promised.

“Will you come by tomorrow?” Akira asked.

Akechi closed his eyes, suddenly feeling very heavy. “…are you planning on infiltrating Sae’s palace?” he queried.

The silence on the other end was damning. “No.”

“We don’t have much time, leader,” he cooed. “I’m not sure it would be a good idea to waste the day.” He couldn’t allow himself to grow closer to him. He lifted his left hand in front of his face, regarding it, wondering what Akira had done with the glove he’d tossed to him. He could feel his mind beginning to scramble with the potential. He remembered how, just a few days ago, Akira had told him he would think about joining him, abandoning his thieves. At the time, Goro had thought it was bullshit, just some attempt to assuage him, but… The soft, vulnerable part of his heart couldn’t help but go: _what if?_

He knew Akira wasn’t going to beg, but there was a small, disappointed sigh. “Well, there’s fresh coffee waiting, and a cute barista who knows just how you like it.”

He suddenly felt very warm again, but managed to coolly reply, “Oh? Did Sojiro hire someone new?” Akira’s laugh amplified that warmth. Goro felt like he was going to melt into his mattress. “…if I find time in my schedule, I’ll come by. Don’t wait up for me, though.”

“Goro, I’d wait ‘til the end of the world for you.”

Understanding such a sentiment was utterly incomprehensible, so he laughed it off. “So dramatic,” he cooed. “I should go.”

“You should rest,” Akira agreed.

“Thank you, for tonight.” _For the ass-whooping, and the talking._ “I feel better after speaking with you.”

“Sweet dreams.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Shuake fic. These two are giving me serious brainworms. 
> 
> Lyrics are from Catch You On My Way Out by Finish Ticket :)
> 
> Follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/mitochondribae) or [tumblr](https://bvrnish.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
